Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

“The sheriff has not been able to capture Robin Hood,” Marian said, wondering about those two men. As children, they’d been rivals of a sort. Had that rivalry grown into something more ominous? Will was charged with catching, sentencing, and, if necessary, executing bandits such as Robin. “I trow the prince cannot be happy with that lack.”

“Nay, but the prince himself has been witness to Robin Hood’s cleverness. John and Nottingham have plotted many traps for the bandit, each one more dangerous than the last. And Robin Hood seems always to slip through the smallest crack and to make his escape. The sheriff was to execute a boy for treason. Hang him on the dais in the Ludlow bailey, in front of all who wished to watch. He intended to make an example of the poor boy.”

“Treason? ’Tis a serious offense.” And must be punished if law and order were to be kept. But a boy?

“Aye. The boy claimed he took only a deer that was already dead from the forest, in order to feed his family.”

Marian felt a little pang in her middle. It was treason to steal from the king, indeed, but . . . “Surely the beast was examined. It would be no hardship to determine if it had been freshly slaughtered.”

Sir Roderick shrugged. “Aye, and there were those who claimed the deer had not been recently killed. But the sheriff meant to hang him anyway, the boy. Merely fourteen winters he was, and if it weren’t for Robin Hood, the boy would have been swaying in the breeze.”

“Robin Hood?”

“Aye. He rescued him right off the scaffolding, whilst the sheriff could do naught but look on furiously.”

Fourteen. That was the same age Will and Robin had been that last summer spent at Mead’s Vale. Hardly boys, but not quite men.

Again she wondered about their rivalry. Even that short moment in the clearing, before she’d recognized Will, the antipathy between the men had been palpable.

Was it possible that they hadn’t recognized each other?

Nay, of course not. She had recognized Robin immediately; surely Will had done so. But Robin could not claim innocence. He was an outlaw.

And it was Will’s duty to punish outlaws.

Duty.

Marian felt her mouth tighten. Oh, she knew well of duty, for ’twas duty that brought her here, into the court of the cruel and lustful John Angevin. Duty to her king, by way of his mother.

She loved Eleanor as much as one could love a strong-willed liege-particularly one of the lesser gender, but who moved among men as if one of them-but Marian was not ignorant of the queen’s faults. It would be no surprise to her if Eleanor hadn’t picked her for this task purposely, knowing that Marian would catch John’s eye. For, in Eleanor’s mind, one must make sacrifices, and one must use whatever skills and advantages one had in order to complete the task. She herself had done so, and expected those whom she trusted to do the same.

Marian was one whom Eleanor trusted, and as she felt the heavy salaciousness of John’s gaze on her, she shivered deep inside. Perhaps it was no boon to be a favorite of Eleanor’s after all.

Yet, what choice did she have? Duty. She would do her duty, regardless of what she must endure.

Though she feared it was too late to escape the prince’s attention, Marian spent the remainder of the meal with her back angled away from the high table and as close to the wall as possible. Perhaps some other fresh face would attract him in her stead. Alys, who was much more beautiful with her spun-gold hair and big blue eyes, was safe from the prince, as she was the heiress to Clervillieres, one of Eleanor’s strongest vassals in Aquitaine. She was still a virgin, due to the fact that her betrothed, a lord eight years younger than she, had recently died before they were wed. Even John dare not sully her maidenhead.

When the interminable meal ended after six courses, plus a round of jongleurs’ entertainment, Marian thought to make her escape to the small chamber that had been put aside for her and Ethelberga. That she had a private chamber was in itself a sign of the queen’s influence.

Making her excuses and slipping past the eager smile of Sir Roderick, Marian edged along the stone wall. She took care not to brush against it, for it was covered with smoke and other grime. One of the pleasures-few as there had been-of being sent to Ludlow was that she’d been able to prepare a new wardrobe. In retrospect, Marian wondered if mayhap she wouldn’t have attracted the prince’s attention if she’d been wearing less-fine clothing. Tonight, her floor-length undergown, fitted from throat to hip and with sleeves laced from wrist to shoulder, was the color of butter. The burnished-gold overtunic-a sleeveless shift-had been embroidered with gold-shot thread and tiny amber beads along the hems and neckline.

Marian knew that the combination of yellow, gold, and amber made her fiery hair appear brighter, her green eyes sharper, and her skin color warm and peachlike . . . and at that moment she bewailed her choice. Vanity. Would it be her undoing?

Just then, she felt a presence behind her, too close. She felt the hair at the back of her neck prickle, and she whirled around.

“Leaving so soon, Lady Marian?” William de Wendeval loomed over her.

The torchlight danced over his face, darkening shadows further, and giving his expression a wicked glow. His eyes were flat and cool, and his lips settled in a half smile that held no humor.

“I’m weary,” she replied easily, though her heart, for some reason, pounded madly. She could not pull her gaze away from those dark eyes, and his large hand closed over her arm.

“Ah, weary. Of course. You must have found it trying to fight off the advances of that rogue in the woods,” he said. His fingers held her firmly, but not painfully, though now he stood so that she was between him and the wall, hidden to the rest of the hall by his great height and broad shoulders.

“Release me, Will,” she said, again keeping her voice calm. She chose to use his name in an effort to remind him of their past. “I wish to go to my chamber.”

Having spoken, Marian turned away, and in doing so looked beyond Will’s arm . . . toward the high table. John sat there, his eyes fastened on her and Will as he raised a goblet to drink. The cup hid the expression on his face, but the avidity in his eyes told her that he watched with interest. She realized that Will had maneuvered it so that while he blocked her from most of the hall, his angle left a clear view for the prince.

“But you cannot,” the sheriff said, and she felt his foot brush against hers. The next thing she knew, the wall bumped up behind her and she was crowded between a large body and the stone. “Your presence is required elsewhere.”

Marian’s throat closed and the pounding of her heart became stronger. “By whom?” she demanded.

“By me.”

The next thing she knew, the world changed: his hands closed over her shoulders and his mouth descended. The wall pushed into her from behind, and his powerful body pressed against hers from the front, one knee shifting to push between her legs. Will’s lips covered hers before she could react or twist away, and his fingers moved to grasp her chin, curving over the front of her throat. Not hard enough to choke her, praise God, but enough that she dared not move.

She realized her eyes had closed, and her hands had gone convulsively toward his chest, her fingers closing over his embroidered tunic, grasping at the heavy stitching as she tried to push him away. He was as immovable as his mouth was skillful, and Marian tasted the heavy wine on his lips and tongue as she gave in to the kiss.

It caught her by surprise, the intensity of his mouth pressed to hers, lips and tongue slipping and sliding in an angry dance. Her breath caught and she became aware of the pounding of his heart beneath her hands, and the matching stampede of her own pulse.

But when she realized what was happening, she pulled her lips, her face, away angrily. His fingers fell from her chin, and before he could fully release her, she whipped her palm back. Will’s hand shot up and caught her wrist before she could slap his face.

“How dare you?” she whispered, fighting to pull free.

His half smile was back, arrogant and powerful and humorless, as he held her wrist with angry fingers.

“Oh, I dare. Do you not know to whom you speak? The fearsome Sheriff of Nottinghamshire.” His lips twisted in a parody of a smile.

“I know who you are,” Marian responded, her heart pounding. “Now take your hands from me, Will.”

“I cannot in conscience do that, my lady. For it’s to be me,” he said, leaning down into her face, crowding his hip against her belly, “or the prince.” He slipped his other hand back up to cup her chin again, forcing her to look at him, up into those hard eyes, flat and dark. “And I won’t draw blood. Or leave bruises.”

CHAPTER 3

R obin eased back into the shadows.

From his vantage point high up in Ludlow’s great hall, he had a clear view of the diners below. After his men had distracted one of the men-at-arms standing watch, Robin had nimbly climbed the bailey’s wall. A corner window slit had allowed him to slip into the hall unnoticed. Now he stood on one of the narrow balconies, hidden behind a tapestry.

The air up here was hot and dull, and his eyes stung from the rising smoke. But not so much that he missed the way the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire had made his way to Lady Marian of Leaford, backed her up against the wall, and fairly rutted with her right in the midst of the hall. ’Twas hard to mistake Nottingham’s height and unrelieved dark tunic pressed up near Marian’s blazing hair, set even more afire by the rich golden clothing she wore.

A lovely lady Marian had become. So much that it had taken him by surprise when he accosted her wagon earlier today. Of course, he’d known it was hers, but he hadn’t expected to find such a pleasant surprise within. A gangly girl with pale skin and an overload of freckles, Marian had always had the beacon-bright hair, as well as the stubborn chin . . . but now all that had melded into a very lovely woman.

By all rights, Robin should have been down below, on the rush-covered floor, with all the other vassals of King Richard, sitting at the trestle tables and slamming fair maidens up against the wall for a kiss-or more.

When he was Lord Robin of Locksley, he had been a favorite with the ladies for his charm, wit, and skill on the lute. He had been counted one of the favorites of the ladies of the royal court, who’d enjoyed the tradition begun in Queen Eleanor’s Court of Love, wherein the knights and lords worshipped them from afar (and sometimes from very intimate proximity). In the old days, Robin had little difficulty moving from that pose of distant worship to a closer hold beneath the laces of those tight-fitting undertunics . . . to the mutual pleasure of all parties.

And then the old king had died, and his son decided to go on Crusade, and everything had changed.

Now Robin of Locksley had become Robin of the Hood, an outlaw who ranged throughout Sherwood Forest, terrorizing those who passed through. And who must remain on the periphery of the court, no longer lord of his own fief. There were benefits to his situation, but at this moment, Robin found them little compensation.

He watched as William de Wendeval seized Marian’s hand when she raised it to strike him, and held it steady as he leaned down into her face. The man appeared unruffled as he spoke with obvious intensity.

Robin gritted his teeth as he watched. His father had thought years ago of betrothing his son to Marian, and had even gone so far as to speak to her father about it. At the time, Robin had little interest in the pale, skinny girl who always wanted to follow him around and who beat him at archery contests more often than he liked to admit. But now he realized he didn’t like watching Nottingham pushing himself upon her, not one whit. And he wasn’t going to allow it to happen.